


Exposed

by CrowleysAnxietyPlants (mollymauks)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (and tbh i can't separate them in my brain anymore), Angst, Aziraphale is anxious, Blend of Book/TV canon bc i love both, Chronic Pain Crowley, Crowley is sore and sad, Established Relationship, Fall angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also Cat is here bc i love and appreciate Cat (and so does Crowley), also it's raining, anyway, bc aesthetic, bc there's just...so much to mine, post Apoca-nope, they love each other and that's soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 12:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollymauks/pseuds/CrowleysAnxietyPlants
Summary: Aziraphale wakes in the middle of a quiet night’s peaceful meditation to find that the demon he (deliberately) fell asleep next to is no longer there. After some minor panicking, he finds him, and then angst and hurt/comfort ensue. Crowley has chronic pain/wing stress from his Fall. Split POV.Teaser:  They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.All at once he looked both holy and profane.It was as though he had just Fallen, as though Aziraphale was seeing him in the moments after it had happened. Still bathed in the final, fleeting rays of Heaven’s light. Even as he was dragged down into Hell’s darkness. Not truly belonging to either, caught between two worlds, like a fly in a web, suspended forever in time, unable to escape either way.





	Exposed

Exposed

Aziraphale slowly returned his mind back to his body. It became aware, as he did so, that it was enveloped in soft warmth, and he instinctively burrowed down into it, like a bird settling into its nest.

He had never quite managed to sleep the way that humans, or indeed, Crowley, did, but...Well, holding Crowley while  _ he _ fell asleep was very nice.

After a while, he had learned how to do something better than sleeping. He had reasoned that he was lying down, warm, and comfortable, and Crowley wasn’t a very good conversational partner while sleeping (though he did occasionally mumble things, but they were never very distinct, nor very coherent) he may as well try and get some form of rest.

He liked to call it a ‘deep meditative state’. Crowley always snorted at this and said that was just a fancy word for napping.

Aziraphale knew the difference, though, whatever Crowley said.

He lost awareness of his body, as one would when they fell asleep, but he kept awareness and control over his thoughts, unlike the dreamlike state that humans, and his demon, entered into.

It really was rather wonderful. He’d tried to explain this to Crowley. He’d even suggested that he try it for himself to see just how wonderful it was.

Crowley had just looked vaguely horrified and said, firmly, “Angel, the whole point of sleeping is that I don’t have to think about anything while I’m doing it! Maybe you should try that. It’s dead... _ Refreshing _ ,” he’d added, with a slightly wistful look on his face.

Frankly, Aziraphale thought it was a waste of his time.

Immortal he may be but there was always so much to  _ do _ that he never managed to fit it in to his days as it was. He had no idea how human beings managed to function, much less be productive, when they were expected to sleep eight hours per day.

No, his few hours of quiet deep meditation were enough for him.

An unexpected little breeze whispered across Aziraphale, and he shivered, burrowing further down into the covers to escape it. Instinctively, he shuffled to his right, seeking Crowley’s natural warmth.

One of the perks of being with a demon – one was never cold. Crowley’s skin always seemed feverish to the touch in its heat, like the hot rocks you got at certain quality spas. Aziraphale had been known to indulge in them from time to time, and they were  _ very _ pleasant indeed.

To his disappointment, he didn’t shuffle into Crowley.

He stretched out a hand, fumbling blindly through the sea of sheets and pillows and blankets and duvet, reaching for him.

“Crowley,” he mumbled thickly, in what Crowley would have described as a ‘whine’, to which Aziraphale would have corrected that it was more a general noise of displeasure.

He was most indignant either way that his demonic heat-source was being so rude and not making itself easily available.

No response to his noise of displeasure, either.

Frowning, he blinked, and the dark room around him came slowly into focus. He had learned when coming out of his meditative states to do so gradually, so as not to overwhelm his body’s senses.

There now, the dark walls, the luxurious silken black sheets, the abstract paintings on the wall, everything as it should be.

He looked to his right.

An empty space where Crowley should have been was all that stared back at him.

No long, lanky demon frame. No red hair, mussed from sleep. No pale skin so beautifully reflecting the moonlight. No deep, golden eyes, finding Aziraphale’s soul bare upon his skin with every glance.

His heart jumped as though lightning had just punched into it. Familiar flickers of panic, like a thousand tiny hummingbirds spawning in his chest to frantically beat their wings at once, beginning in his chest. Then tightening in his stomach and tying his nerves in knots.

_ Calm yourself now, dear boy _ , he thought, firmly.

There was no reason at all to suspect that anything at all was amiss. Crowley could simply have decided that he needed to water the plants. Or that a rerun of his favourite episode of Golden Girls was on and he wanted to watch it. Or that, that he desperately needed a cup of tea.

Aziraphale couldn’t  _ possibly _ have meditated through an entire, elaborate scenario that involved the vile agents of Hell breaking into their home and resting a terrified, struggling, fighting Crowley from their bed, and kidnapping him away for all kinds of unnatural, inconceivable,  _ unthinkable _ tortures while Aziraphale was right beside him,  _ surely _ .

Or could he?

“Damn you and your ridiculous little human notions, Crowley!” he exploded, scrambling out of the bed.

In his state of panic, which had not been appeased in the slightest by his calming, logical thoughts, though they’d been as firm as they could be, he felt he was allowed this _ minor _ hypocrisy in the moment.

“I swear I shall never forgive you for this, you stupid old serpent,” he continued, ranting, wringing his hands at thin air like an old maid in the kind of old-fashioned television show Aziraphale rather enjoyed, but would never confess to liking, even under demonic torture 1 .

Aziraphale had discovered hand-wringing some centuries ago. Perhaps even invented it, he was unsure. Six thousand years of memory was quite a lot to trawl through, especially at a time like this.

Either way, Gabriel would have had a fit if he’d ever seen him doing it. He wouldn’t consider it ‘appropriate’ behaviour for an angel. But, well, blast it, it  _ helped _ .

Aziraphale paced in a nervous fluster through the flat, following his familiar anxiety path.

Cat, who had been enjoying a midnight snack, followed him with her big, yellow eyes, so painfully like Crowley’s. She gave a soft mew at his obvious distress, but unfortunately shed no particular light on the whereabouts of their favourite demon.

Finally, he returned to the bedroom, and began to do his utmost to wear a hole in the rug as he tramped up and down up and down up and down, as if this would suddenly reveal Crowley.

It didn’t.

A cold wind tickled the back of his neck again, which was the very  _ last _ thing he needed at this moment in time. Feeling distinctly aggrieved, he angrily looked up in an attempt to locate its source.

Only then did he realise that the window was open.

There were very few windows in Crowley’s flat. He seemed to have a certain aversion to them. Which Aziraphale supposed was understandable, given he was a demon. He’d always had rather sensitive skin, bless him. Likely a side-effect of him being a red-head.

The plant room had some, naturally, but the only other one in the whole flat was in the bedroom. It was set into the ceiling, a huge, beautiful, circular structure. Though it had no right to, given that Crowley lived in a mid-floor flat, it looked right up onto the sky beyond.

At present, there was no glass in it. Aziraphale could feel the ripple of the wind but was shielded, thanks, no doubt, to another little demonic miracle, from the pouring rain outside.

He breathed again.

He didn’t, strictly speaking, need to, but he’d found that his body got rather cross with him if he didn’t at least make an effort every now and then. It started turning blue in various different places, and he got awfully dizzy. Humans were very delicate creatures, really.

Slowly, luxuriously as always, Aziraphale spread his white wings. He was really rather proud of them, he thought, as he flexed the feathers to stretch everything out appropriately. And he  _ did _ miss being able to have them out whenever he felt like it.

He centred himself beneath the window, crouched slightly, wings flaring- Then he hesitated.

If he was seen...He shuddered,  _ vividly  _ recalling the paperwork nightmare of 1795. He hadn’t emerged for weeks. His hand had cramped for days afterwards. He hadn’t been able to so much as  _ look  _ at a book without it bringing him out in a cold sweat at the memory of all those pages and pages full of cramped handwriting and scrawled signatures.

And people were so much less likely to believe in the supernatural these days. Things had died down alright in 1795 after the required measures had been put in place There were modern cameras about now, and those clever phones like the one Crowley had and-

No.

Hang it.

He didn’t care.

Anyway, it was dark, and they were so high up that no-one would see. If they did, well, he would deal with them. Them and the ensuing paperwork, if that was what it took.

With one powerful down stroke, Aziraphale propelled himself up into the night sky.

It was a strange sensation. Crowley had altered things to allow the sky to filter directly into his window. His body wasn’t entirely aware of this, and struggled to cope with the tunnel of altered reality and the fact that Aziraphale was, strictly speaking, flying  _ through  _ a building.

Reality, however, coped, and Aziraphale endured. He emerged a minute or so later, feeling much as he had when he’d decided to take his first (and last) pleasure cruise on the Titanic back in 1912. And this had been  _ before _ the whole iceberg calamity.

Crowley had laughed so hard he’d snorted wine through his nose so badly he’d nearly discorporated himself at the idea of an angel getting seasick. Aziraphale had not found the matter nearly so amusing.

He’d almost been glad when the thing had sunk. Hundreds of casualties aside of course.

The rain struck him as soon as he was clear of the building, and he winced. He did so  _ hate _ getting his wings wet. It was always such a trauma trying to dry out all the feathers properly. And then there was the fact that it just felt  _ awful _ .

Shuddering, he landed on the roof, a little harder than he’d meant to, feeling distinctly ungainly for an angel. It had been quite a while since he’d done this. It seemed he was rather out of practice. How  _ embarrassing _ .

Flying was rather like riding a velocipede, one never forgot how. That did not mean one retained their level of competence without sufficient, regular practice, however.

He strained his nightshirt with dignity, then took stock of his surroundings, blinking in slight surprise.

There were dozens of plants dotted around the rooftop in different troughs and tubs, in a very haphazard approximation of a terrace garden. There didn’t seem to be any particular order that he could identify. Yet even in the dark, he could tell that they were well-cared for. They had all been trimmed, and dead-headed, and watered, and fed appropriately. A lot of love had gone into this little place. He could feel it.

At the centre of it all, like the sun in a sea of smaller stars, sat Crowley.

His chest was bare, exposed to the deluge from the Heavens above. Aziaraphale could see his beautiful tattoo. He had never known that he had it until the two of them had become...rather more  _ intimate _ in the months following the Armageddon that was averted.

It was a stunning thing, truly. A rippling black watercolour reflection of star spattered sky above them. The cosmos carved out in ink upon the skin of its creator. A beautiful, haunting echo to how it all began.

Through it all, the serpent swam. It would have been invisible, but it was of a darker black than the night around it.

Like the wings that spilled from Crowley’s back.

They were even more breathtaking than the tattoo. A different form of art, to be sure, but no less exquisitely wrought.

They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.

All at once he looked both holy and profane.

It was as though he had just Fallen, as though Aziraphale was seeing him in the moments after it had happened. Still bathed in the final, fleeting rays of Heaven’s light. Even as he was dragged down into Hell’s darkness. Not truly belonging to either, caught between two worlds, like a fly in a web, suspended forever in time, unable to escape either way.

Something in Aziarpahle’s chest caught looking at him, as though he too had been snared by some trap.

For all they had done together, for all they had shared in more than six thousand years, for all the intimacy between them now, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley quite as  _ vulnerable _ as he appeared now.

It felt as though he was intruding on something deeply private. Something that should never be witnessed by another. Like a confession. A confession that revealed the barest parts of another’s soul.

Rain continued to fall between them like a veil. So thin he could see him, could smell him, could  _ taste _ him...But could never quite reach him.

Aziaraphle stared, swaying slightly in place, hypnotised by the scene before him.

For all he moved, Crowley might have been a statue. Carved from marble and obsidian, a study of the Fallen, and the weight they bore.

Dear Atlas carried the world upon his shoulders.

His dear Crowley seemed to hold the Heavens upon his back, in more than ink and skin. He was still crushed, Aziraphale knew, by the weight of promises that had been made, and lost. By things that had been taken, and the knowledge that they would never be returned.

Aziraphale jerked himself from his indulgent thoughts. They didn’t do Crowley any good, and that had to be his focus right now.

_ Crowley _ .

How he would hate those thoughts. As he would hate anyone, even Aziraphale, seeing him in this state.

He had worked so hard for years to cultivate his show of aloofness, to act as though he cared for little, and loved even less.

But it wasn’t true.

Angels were beings of love, it was often said. He could sense it. But Crowley? Crowley  _ felt _ it. Truly felt it. And it was both his destruction and his salvation. He needed it, but he feared so much that anyone would see it, because in his world, all they would ever see was weakness, and targets.

Aziraphale had never considered himself as particularly strong – in any sense of that word.

As he’d admitted to himself after his conversation with Gabriel in St James’ park, he was soft.

His soft, bleeding heart had given away his god-granted sword for pity’s sake. His soft will had let him succumb to base mortal pleasures.. His soft moral compass had permitted Crowley to tempt him into the Arrangement.

Aziraphale was just  _ soft _ .

But for Crowley, for this being he loved with everything he was, and everything he might ever be, holy or profane, angel or demon, whole or in pieces...For Crowley, though it went against every instinct he had and felt as though his soul was being dragged over hot coals, he would do this to spare him any further pain.

He turned to slip back inside the flat, hating himself for every step, even as he loved Crowley with them.

He would go back inside, drop down to the back, walk around the front and return via the main entrance. Then he would wait. Draw a bath, perhaps, though he didn’t want to make it obvious that he was concerned or fussing, for then Crowley would know that he knew that there was something to fuss about, and he wouldn’t want that.

But he would wait. He would be ready. Whenever Crowley was. In six days, or six months, or another six thousand years, he would be ready for him, and then-

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice was a hoarse rasp, but it was distinct enough.

It carried through the quiet night air like a scream, with only the soft static of the rain to disturb it.

Aziraphale froze. Then he turned slowly back. If he had made this worse, if he had ruined it all-

Crowley still hadn’t moved a muscle, but he spoke again. His words were so faint they were almost stolen by the wind that rose around them. Except for the fact that Aziraphale clung to them the way a holy man might cling to his prayer beads in the middle of, say, Armageddon.

“It’s okay,” Crowley mumbled quietly, “Y’don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

The words slurred together a little, most likely from pain. 

It was the cruellest kind of pain, he knew, though he had never tasted it himself. An echo of wounds six thousand years old. A phantom Aziarpahle’s magic, though holy, could not banish.

His heart ached for him. And, not for the first time, a flicker of anger stirred to life within him.

“I just mean you  _ can _ ,” Crowley added, giving a tiny half-glance in Aziraphale’s direction. 

He noticed then that his demon was shaking. From cold or pain, he couldn’t tell.

“S’a free country ‘n all that,” Crowley mumbled vaguely. “But m’ point is...You don’t have to leave. You can...You can stay. If you like.”

Aziraphale softened.

He knew Crowley well enough by now, he should think, to know that ‘you can stay’ meant ‘please don’t leave’.

“I would like to,” Aziraphale murmured as he moved in closer.

Tentatively, he knelt down at Crowley’s back and eased his arms around him. Crowley let out a tiny whimper and melted against him. Aziraphale braced himself against the rain damp tiles and held Crowley close, pressing his forehead to the seam between his wings.

“You’re freezing cold,” he admonished, concern leaking into his words, but no harshness. He had seen too much of that already.

“’M a demon,” Crowley grunted back, “We don’t get cold. Hellfire in our veins and...Stuff.”

“Well you  _ are _ ,” Aziraphale said, firmly, drawing him in even closer, instincts flaring, the desire to protect, to shelter, to  _ save _ overwhelming.

Crowley didn’t protest.

With a soft exhale, Aziraphale extended his own wings, stark white against Crowley’s inky black, and draped them gently around the pair of them. The rain pattered mockingly against them, but in the moment, he couldn’t care less about that.

Crowley shuddered slightly and pressed himself deeper into Aziraphale’s soft embrace. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed him in. For a long while he simply held him in the rain, and the world was blessedly quiet as the stars turned overhead.

Finally, Aziraphale croaked, voice shaking just a little, which he thought was quite the achievement, considering “Is it your wings? The pain?”

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale raised his, surprised, and felt Crowley shift slightly beneath him. Uncomfortable at the reaction, or at the simple loss of contact, he couldn’t be sure.

“I mean, they hurt,” he clarified, bluntly, “But it’s not the pain...Not just the pain. I  _ know _ pain. I can deal with it, it’s-” His voice broke and he shook his head, trembling more tangibly in his angel’s arms. 

Aziraphale stroked his fingers tenderly along the arc of Crowley’s spine. Up and down, up and down, in a slow, soothing rhythm, like breathing, seeking to calm him.

Finally, he managed to choke out, “I miss it, ‘Ziraphale. I  _ miss it _ .”

The agony was so obviously etched into this last words that Aziraphale nearly flinched from it.

Crowley shivered in Aziraphale’s arms, and the angel stroked his back, hands running so delicately over his tattooed skin.

“D’you know why I like to sleep so much, angel?” Crowley managed to get out at last.

This was an unexpected follow-up, to say the least, but Aziraphale simply said, gently, “Tell me.”

“I dream,” Crowley whispered, “And when I dream...I fly again.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, unable to stop himself instinctively pulling Crowley in more tightly. As though he could shelter him from this grief as he sheltered him from the rain.

It was cruel, what they had done to him. So cruel sometimes it was all Aziraphale could do not to find himself that flaming sword and storm the whole of Heaven with it, blasphemy be damned.

***

“Every time, Aziraphale.  _ Every  _ time,” Crowley rasped.

He swallowed with difficulty past the lump in his throat and let his head hang on his neck, limp and pathetic, like an old child’s doll that had been so thoroughly abused, it couldn’t exist without its saviour and breaker.

It had taken a while, and a lot of talking to humans, before he’d realised they didn’t see the same thing over and over and over again every time they fell asleep.

Well. Some of them did. Some of them had nightmares.

That had terrified Crowley. The idea that Hell could reach him the only time he ever felt truly safe, the only time he knew any real peace anymore.

It had never happened.

Every time he dreamed, he flew over Eden. His wings were strong, and beautiful, and  _ whole _ . The black feathers rippled like black glass in the sun as they caught updrafts and sent him endlessly through the interminable vista of rolling clouds and soaring winds.

Sometimes, in the distance, he could make out Aziraphale standing sentinel on the Eastern wall.

He never joined him in the air, though. The skies were his, and his alone. 

He was safe. He was happy. He was  _ free _ . 

At least until he woke up.

“She does it,” he said now.

He tried not to let his voice shake but...what was the point? He was only here with Aziraphale, and all his ghosts, and they had both seen far worse from him then a tremor on his tongue.

“I know she does it. I don’t know why. She never talks to me anymore.”  _ And why would she? _ “But...She does this.”

Aziraphale’s grip on him was so tight it was painful. It felt good. It felt grounding. Crowley was afraid he might be torn away by the rain storm without him. A stray feather in a hurricane. Insignificant. Helpless. Forgotten.

“I don’t know if it’s to punish me, to remind me of what I lost, what She  _ took _ ,” he couldn’t help the edge of bitterness that crept into that last word.

It was like a thief in the night. Unwanted, unwelcome, and invasive. But ultimately, that didn’t matter. It came anyway.

Six thousand years. Six thousand years since he’d Fallen. He should have been over it by now. He should have been over it centuries ago. Millennia, really. But he wasn’t.

“I don’t know if, maybe, it’s Her letting me remember it, letting me live it again. Just a bit. If maybe...Maybe it’s the only bit of forgiveness that She can give me.”

He sagged in Aziraphale’s arms at that, ashamed. Ashamed that he could still hope, could still believe She might still care about him. After everything he’d been through, the Fall, Hell, the torments they offered up down there, Her relentless silence, after everything She’d done to him, he should know better. He should have learned.

There was nothing left to have faith in anymore.

Crowley took a breath as the wind stirred up again and rippled through his feathers, making them tingle. He could still feel his wings. Some days he could feel entirely too much of them. He could still move them, still have them respond to him but...He couldn’t fly.

He had tried. He had tried a lot, especially those first few centuries, and every thousand years or so since. It had been excruciating. He’d told himself if he just pushed a little bit harder he could make it happen, could make them stronger, could fly again. All he’d gotten for his pain was near discorporation and a very strong letter full of expletives from Below.

“I like it out here,” he found himself muttering, conscious of Aziraphale’s patient embrace, “’Specially when it rains. Being up here, under the stars, with the wind, and the rain, and the peace...It’s the closest I can get to flying anymore.”

He felt pathetic admitting that. His deepest secret. His ultimate weakness, laid bare. Like the shiny metal covers they put on food at the Ritz, whipped off to reveal his soul, exposed beneath.

“If I could,” aziraphale breathed behind him, soft as a blasphemy whispered in a church2, “I would give you mine.”

“ _ Aziraphale _ ,” he croaked, starting with surprise in his arms.

He’d have been less shocked if the angel  _ had _ blasphemed in church, had cursed out God in every language known to humankind (and the few they hadn’t discovered yet), and told her he quit 3 .

An angel’s wings were near holy. It was a miracle (not truly, but sometimes that human turn of phrase was all that would do) that they were sheltering Crowley and not destroying him.

An angel’s wings were  _ everything _ to them. Their pride, the overwhelming symbol that set them apart from demons, from humanity, from everything. And Aziraphale’s...They were perfect. Just perfect. To give them up, to even consider it...

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he mumbled, “You’re an angel. It’s practically lying.”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale said, so sincerely, he might have been reciting scripture.

Crowley jerked in shock.

“What?”

Aziraphale shifted faster than Crowley could follow. In a heartbeat he was before him, kneeling as though he were an altar the angel had been made to give worship at. It was profane, the very thought of an angel on his knees before  _ him _ and-

“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, fiercely, and every other thought was wiped from his mind.

Aziraphale reached up and cradled Crowley’s face firmly between his soft hands.

“If I had to carve them from my own back, if I had to pull them apart a feather at a time, I would do it. For you.”

Crowley recoiled, shaking his head uncontrollably. The very idea was repulsive, unbearable.

Aziraphale didn’t understand what he was saying, what he would lose, the  _ pain  _ of it. He’d had his wings six thousand years longer than Crowley had. To lose them now…

“It would destroy you,” he breathed, hoarsely. 

Unconsciously, he lifted a hand and grazed the tips of his fingers slowly,  _ reverently _ , along the top crest of his angel’s beautiful white wing.

“It’s destroying you,” Aziraphale whispered back, catching Crowley’s hand and intertwining their fingers

Demons were supposed to be selfish creatures who cared only for their own interests, who took whatever they wanted, regardless of what it cost anyone, or anything, else. But he couldn’t even contemplate doing something like this. Not to Aziraphale.

Crowley was weak. All of Hell said so. They had for years, behind his back, like he didn’t know.

He didn’t particularly give a shit anymore.

“I would never let you,” he choked out, shaking his head violently, as though to rid it of the thought.

The look on Aziraphale’s face in that moment could have been used to define love for the first time in history.

“Which is why I would do it,” he breathed reverently. “Without hesitation.”

He leaned forwards and gently touched his forehead to Crowley’s. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, to the cool comfort of his angel. Who was insane. Completely, and utterly,  _ insane _ because Crowley knew he meant it. Every word.

Angel’s could sense love. Demons could feel truth. It kind of went with the territory of the whole drawing up contracts, making demonic pacts, sealing ancient bargains, and that kind of thing.

But in the same way that angel’s didn’t spend their entire life being bombarded by every human’s love for peanut butter, or mystery novels, or Queen - he could only feel deep, raw, truth. The kind that was so sincere it left a mark upon the soul.

Crowley knew every word that had just come from the angel’s lips was like gospel to him.

With a slow, gentle movement, Aziraphale wrapped his wings tenderly around Crowley, then pulled him in close, as close as they could be while remaining separate entities.

All at once, he was enveloped in a soft, feathery cocoon, breathing in the smell of old books, and leather, and some kind of spicy fragrance Aziraphale had been favouring for centuries that he’d never been able to exactly identify.

After a long time spent cradled up in angel, his fingers carding soothingly through Crowley’s hair, he heard Aziraphale speak again, very softly.

“I, I could take you, if you wanted. Now. I could, I could carry you while I flew and…” He sounded so hesitant, as though one wrong word would send Crowley skittering away from him like a nervous animal. “I know that it wouldn’t be same, perhaps not even close, but...But we could try? If you wanted?”

Crowley’s face crumpled with emotion, but when he withdrew enough for Aziraphale to see him, all that was left was a wry smirk.

“Isn’t that against the angel’s code of conduct?” he said, “Heaven’s Flyway Code: no exceeding 30mph, no overhead-taking, no flying under the influence, and  _ absolutely _ no being seen by humans?”

To say nothing of taking demons with you. If that wasn’t already part of the code, he could practically hear Gabriel squeaking up in Heaven and barking at Michael to get it added immediately.

He felt that it wouldn’t  _ really _ be necessary to point out that they happened to be in the most densely populated city in the UK. Even with miracles, it would be a risky thing to attempt even in the countryside.

Then again, he never thought  _ he _ would have to remind  _ Aizraphale _ of anything even remotely resembling a rule. ‘Fussy stickler’ was definitely near the top of the list of ‘most frequently used phrases to describe the Principality Aziraphale’.

“I’m serious, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

He reached out and cupped Crowley’s cheek in a hand, the pad of his thumb lightly tracing the arc of his cheekbone, “I want to help you, my dear.”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own and squeezed gently, “If you’re seen- If they catch you-“

“I shall cross that bridge if we come to it,” he cut in, firmly.

“Aziraphale-” Crowley began.

“Please,” the angel interrupted, a slight quaver in his voice.

Crowley arched up on his knees and gently kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head, breathing him in. Sweet, naive,  _ foolish _ angel, even after all this time.

“There are some things you can’t fix, angel,” he said, quietly, fingers threading through Aziraphale’s thick white hair. “No matter how hard you try. No matter how badly you want to. Some things are just broken.”

“ _ You _ are not broken!” Aziraphale burst out indignantly.

Crowley hesitated for a fraction of a second. In truth, he  _ was _ . But not because of this.

“No,” he agreed, slowly, “But these are.”

He gestured over his shoulder as he gave his wings a slight flex which stoked the burning pain in them to a sharp flare before settling again into their familiar dull ache.

With a sad smile he said, quietly, “You can’t catch me, angel. I’ve already Fallen.”

Aziraphale slid a finger under Crowley’s chin and tilted his head up until their eyes met. He brushed his mouth tenderly against Crowley’s lips, gentle as the kiss of a feather on the wind, and breathed, “that’s no reason to keep me from lifting you up again, Crowley.”

In his mouth, his name sounded almost like that of an angel.

For the first time since he had held him, Crowley looked past Aziraphale. He looked past the bright blue eyes, full of empathy and the need to help. He looked past the beautiful white wings, now glowing faintly in the moonlight, perfect, not a feather out of place, forming a halo around his soft form.

He looked out to the stars he had crafted from the darkness. The rain continued to fall around them, but the clouds where he looked had faded. The sky was clear, and he could see the stars beyond, beckoning him home.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in. 

The wind ran its fingers through his feathers the way Aziraphale might when welcoming him back after he’d been gone too long.

The air was cold, but it felt good against his burning skin.

His imagination carried him and he soared over the city. He imagined what it would look like from so high up, all little lights, and square buildings, and long narrow streets. The feeling of testing himself in those narrow streets, weaving between those buildings, racing around tight corners. It was  _ exhilarating. _

The fierce wind was nearly ripping feathers from his wings. The rain was like bullets against his skin, nearly blinding him.

Aziraphale’s arms were around him, making sure he didn’t fall.

The fantasy shattered.

All he could see now was Aziraphale cradling him, like a child, his wings dragging uselessly behind him, utterly dependent on another to carry him and care for him in the skies that used to be his.

He couldn’t feel the wonder, the joy, the  _ freedom _ anymore. All he could taste was bitterness, and resentment, and humiliation.

It was a stupid reason not to try, to further deny himself something that had been taken from him for six thousand years but...He  _ couldn’t _ . He couldn’t stand it.

“No,” he said, shakily, “No I, I can’t. Not now. Not-“ He swallowed with difficulty and added, pathetically, “I’m not ready.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, gently, softly stroking his hair again.

Crowley was pretty sure he didn’t understand at all. But he was so grateful the angel wasn’t pushing him, or using that limitless reason and logic to explain at the moment why they should at least make a go of it.

He couldn’t face trying to put the tangled web of his emotions into words right now. Not like this. Aziraphale at least seemed to understand that, damn him.

The angel wrapped his wings around him again, but more loosely this time. Stroking his fingers through Crowley’s hair he said, quietly, “What do you need? Tell me what I can do for you. Anything. Anything at all.”

“Just don’t leave me,” Crowley mumbled. The words were out before he could stop them, and he felt utterly pathetic saying them, but there was no helping that now.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s hair, more said to himself. “I couldn’t bear to be on my own without you just now,” he admitted, and Crowley found himself pulling the angel in closer, no longer feeling weak or useless, only grateful.

Gently, Aziraphale began massaging Crowley’s wings, clever fingers finding and loosening the knots in the muscles. It didn’t take away the pain, but it helped.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, softly, “May I continue?”

In answer, Crowley sagged against him, mashed his face against Aziraphale’s neck (in a comforting way), and managed to groan out an incoherent but enthusiastic, “ _ Uh-huh _ ,” against his skin.

There was a faint smile beneath his disapproval when he said, “You see, if you’d just come to me first and skipped all of these dramatics, wouldn’t that have been better?”

Crowley growled indignantly. 

This was somewhat undercut by the soft moan of relief that escaped him around the same time.

“You were napping,” he mumbled, thickly.

In a very bloody disconcerting way, he didn’t add, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Would have given humans nightmares for  _ years _ .

Aziraphale huffed with irritation, as expected, “Actually, I’ll have you know that I was engaged in a deep meditational study concerning the evolution of symbolism and theme throughout the life’s works of William Shakespeare. I was  _ not _ napping, as you so crudely put it.”

“Were,” Crowley muttered petulantly under his breath.

Aziraphale dug his fingers into a particularly tight knot and Crowley yelped in protest.

While he frowned up at him with wounded indignation, the angel said,  _ angelically _ , “So sorry, dear boy.”

Still scowling, Crowley slumped gracelessly back into his original position.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale went on, voice softening, “What I was doing is irrelevant. You will always take priority, Crowley, whatever I might be doing. I need you to know that.”

“You’ve gone soft in your old age, angel.”

“And I’ll make no apology for that,” he replied, calmly, gently kneading a particularly tender spot as he did so. “And we’re ageless, dear,” he added, placidly, “I cannot be  _ old _ . Nor can I be young. I simply am.”

“Simply insufferable,” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in his serious ‘stop deflecting or I’ll be nice to your plants again’ angel voice which meant he had to listen to him, “I love you,” he said, firmly,” And I will keep pestering you with that knowledge until the end of time if that’s what it takes to make you accept-“

“I do, I do accept it,” Crowley interrupted irritably, pawing at Aziraphale’s hands in an attempt to get him to skip the lecture and resume his soothing massage.

“Until you accept that you  _ deserve _ it,” Aziraphale pressed on.

Blessed angel really  _ was _ insufferable, Crowley thought, ignoring the sudden lump in his throat. All  _ good _ , and  _ noble _ , and  _ decent _ .

He couldn’t find a proper answer with words, so he arched up, ignoring the painful tightness in his back, and kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth.

The angel recoiled from the shock of it for a heartbeat, then melted into him, smiling against his lips, hands gentle on his waist.

Crowley leaned into his upwards momentum and shifted into his serpent form, coiling endlessly around Aziraphale until his entire weight was supported by the other.

“Take me back inssside, angel,” he hissed softly, nuzzling affectionately against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, well, my wish is your command, sir Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbled at this issuing of orders, but without any real heat or rancour.

The angel miracled them both back inside with a blink and let out a small sigh, shaking out his wings and spattering every surface in a ten foot radius with water droplets.

Crowley knew how much Aziraphale hated getting his wings wet.

He gave him a little squeeze and said, “Run usss a bath, angel. I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to make up for, my dear,” the angel insisted, obstinately, all the while continuing to drip mournfully onto the carpet.

Crowley growled impatiently and slithered around him until they were nose to nose.

“ _ Aziraphale _ .”

“No!” the angel said, “Not while you’re this sore, it’s utterly unfair, I won’t even-“

Crowley squeezed until Aziraphale cut off with a look that very plainly said ‘ _ really, darling _ ?’

“ _ Aziraphale _ ,” he repeated, in his best ‘agree with me or I’ll miracle inappropriate typos into all your favourite books again’ demon voice. “Let me take care of you, too. Pleassse,” he wheedled.

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale said, throwing up his hands dramatically as he did so, “You wily old serpent, you,” he added, fondly, gently kissing Crowley’s snout.

Crowley wriggled away from him with an indignant hiss, “I am an apex predator,” he informed Aziraphale, tartly, as the angel carried him to the bath he had just miracled into existence for them.

“Of course you are, dear,” the angel replied, not at  _ all _ patronisingly.

“I could eat you for breakfast,” Crowley persisted, rearing up a little as he said it to add to the threatening effect of his words.

“I rather hope you will,” Aziraphale replied evenly, without missing a beat.

Somehow, Crowley’s snake form blushed.

They continued to bicker throughout the bath, in which Crowley carefully washed and groomed Aziraphale’s wings to rid them of the rain damage. And afterwards, as Crowley dried Aziraphale’s wings, then the angel carried him back to the bedroom, where he stretched luxuriously on the bed.

Then he nestled against his angel, coiling around him in heavy black and red folds, still in his snake form. Aziraphale settled back against the pillows, a book already miracled to him on his chest of drawers for when Crowley drifted off.

The tips of his fingers traced soothing patterns over Crowley’s scales, bleeding the last few vestiges of tension from his body.

Just before he fell asleep, head pillowed against Aziraphale’s soft stomach, Crowley found that, perhaps, there was still something left to have faith in after all.

******************************************************************************

Footnotes:

1- Crowley had tried. The wily demon had taken him unawares, striking him when he’d least expected it, in spots he was most vulnerable, tickling mercilessly, but to no avail.

2- As if Aziraphale would ever even dream of doing such a thing.

3- Crowley didn’t know if it was strictly possible to quit from being an angel. The same way it wasn’t really possible for a cow to quit from being a cow. Or for a table to request a transfer to be a chair instead. 

**Author's Note:**

> Ty for reading!!! And thank you for your comments so far!! I have read them all and deeply appreciate every one. I'm just an awkward potato and I don't know a)- if it's The Done Thing to reply to comments and b)- uh, how? But if y'all would like more feedback then I will Give It. But either way I appreciate urs very much and please let me know if you enjoyed this one! There are a few little ideas/headcanons in it I'm p fond of if I'm honest. 
> 
> Also Cat has her own origin story in Snitten. Which is pure fluff and soft Crowley. She will likely appear again because I'm Taken with her (and so is Crowley).


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